


Speak To Me

by BenevolentErrancy



Series: Fingers, Tongues, and Inkwells [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, M/M, Sign Language, mute character, some period-typical ableism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 06:06:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3346331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenevolentErrancy/pseuds/BenevolentErrancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A new man has been attending Les Amis meetings but not only does he not contribute to discussions but he seems determined to brush Enjolras off when he tries to talk to him.  No one has yet heard him say so much as a word.</p><p>When Grantaire does start speaking it is not at all what Enjolras expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Speak To Me

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for the kink meme prompt: "R is mute... but that doesn't prevent him from voicing his opinion, even more so when Enjolras is concerned!"  
> http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/14280.html?thread=14205896#t14205896

-

When the man first began appearing at meetings Enjolras didn’t know what to think of him.

Actually, at first he didn’t think much of anything at all. He made passing note to a mop of curly black hair that appeared one evening because it was always a good idea to pay attention to who was coming and going from your radical political group, but when the man took a seat in one corner, with a bottle of wine to himself and a rather judgemental smile flickering around his lips, Enjolras largely cast him from his mind. Les Amis de l’ABC was a fair sized group, with various people, students largely, coming and going regularly. If this man proved to be a dedicated supporter he would come more frequently and Enjolras would eventually learn his name, otherwise he would be unsettled by the political inclinations of the group or the fervour with which they are held and it would be of no matter.

The man remained silent during the meeting, preferring to stay quiet in his corner, and Enjolras soon disregarded him .

The curly haired man did not, in fact, cross him mind again until almost a month later.

“Oh,” he remarked idly as he and Combeferre entered the backroom that already had a number of people milling about, “he has come back after all.”

Combeferre, who had been interrupted mid-sentence, blinked at his companion for a moment, as if trying to finding footing again, and then turned to examine the room.

“Forgive me but who’s back again?” he asked finally.

“He… To be honest I’m not sure his name. He came by once, several weeks ago. The man in the green waistcoat over there, who’s sitting on his own.”

Combeferre blinked owlishly at him again. “Enjolras,” he said slowly, “you do realize he’s been here every meeting since that night, correct?”

“What?” Enjolras racked his mind. “No… he can’t have been, I would have noticed…”

Chuckling, Combeferre clasped his friend’s shoulder. “I assure you, he has. I made note only because I couldn’t help but wonder at the apparently supernatural capacities of his liver if the amount of wine he takes in a single evening is to be believed. Though, in your defence, I don’t believe he’s said a single thing since he’s come to be here.”

Despite Combeferre’s placations, Enjolras felt very put out by the fact he has apparently neglected the man’s presence for an entire month. A month! Even his lieutenants couldn’t always be trusted to be present at every single meeting within a month; Enjolras was feeling both shamed for his neglect and rather piqued by the dedication of this man. He resolved to set things right after the more formal discussion of the evening was over.

-

“Good evening, Monsieur.”

With a start, the curly haired man seemed to come to, as if waking from a doze. Prior to Enjolras’ arrival at his table, the man had been sitting with his head rested in his hand, staring out across the room blankly. Upon meeting Enjolras’ eyes though a high blush rose in his cheeks; Enjolras didn’t try to decipher what this might mean.

“I’ve come to realize you’ve been here quite regularly for the past few weeks–” He didn’t mention how he had come to this realization, it was not terrible kind to greet a new acquaintance with the acknowledgement that he was so unremarkable that he had escaped your notice for an entire month. “–and yet I’m afraid I don’t even know your name. I am Enjolras.”

A look, as if of panic, or pain, twisted across the man’s face. Enjolras watched in confusion as the man frantically patted his pockets before seeming to become resigned. He said nothing but accepted Enjolras’ extended hand and gave it a firm shake.

Enjolras was rather taken aback when even after that no name was offered. Was the man offended that he had been ignored for so long that now he chose to withhold his name from Enjolras?

“If I might be so bold to ask your name, Monsieur?” he tried, tapping down the annoyance in his voice.

Again, complex emotions seemed to rip across the man’s face, but it settled on something akin to irritation. He just shrugged and, after a moment, made a strange gesture – his fore and middle fingers intertwined, placed against one, stubbly cheek. He had a sharp, lopsided smirk on his face and Enjolras had the distinct impression that he was being mocked.

“What’s that suppose to mean?” he snapped.

The man, once again, only shrugged.

“Say something!” Enjolras demanded, properly enraged. The man folded his arms and lowered his chin down into them, staring up at Enjolras with bizarre expression, as if he was staring up at something distant and untouchable.

Partially annoyed and partially disquieted by the expression, Enjorlas left after that.

“He refuses to speak to you too, then?” Courfeyrac commented, coming to join Enjolras at the table he had stormed off to.

“He… gestured at me,” said Enjolras in a low voice, shoot a glare back towards the table. The man still had his eyes fixed on him; Enjolras looked away quickly. “Does this mean anything to you?” he asked, crossing his fingers and pressed them to the side of his face. “Is it an insult? Some slang or argot?”

Courfeyrac shrugged. “It’s more than I’ve gotten from him – he only shakes his head at me. I think he might be simple.”

“He has no place here,” said Enjolras irritably.

“It is not our place,” came Combeferre’s low, firm voice as he made to join them at their table, “to judge the merits of a man based off our perceptions of his intellect.”

Appropriately chastised, Enjolras and Courfeyrac spoke no more on the subject but Enjolras did not forget that evening and never again failed to notice the head of unruly hair that was positioned in a corner of the room more often than not. The man never seemed to speak though and Enjolras made no further efforts to reach out to him.

-

This was why Enjolras was startled one evening when he heard Joly laugh loudly but, upon looking up, found that he was not seated beside Bossuet or Bahorel but by the curly haired man instead. For a moment Enjolras thought that Joly was laughing at him and, despite his own distaste for the dull man, felt rather disturbed that good-natured Joly would laugh so blatantly to another man’s face. But the laughter had no malicious edge and the man was  _smiling_.

And what a smile. It changed the man completely: he beamed. He had an undeniably broad face, not a handsome one by any means, but in this moment it seemed to have been specifically designed to be able to smile like the sun. It was world’s apart from the strange, bitter smile that he had given Enjolras when he had tried to speak to him. Without even realizing his intention, Enjolras was suddenly across the room and approaching their table.

“Enjolras!” Joly called in delight, waving him over. “You must have a look at this, it’s delightfully clever! Here, pass me your pen, I must show him…” This was said directly to the man, who’s expression had fallen somewhat at Enjolras’ approach. He did as Joly asked regardless, passing over the pen that had been in his hand.

“Here,” Joly said as Enjolras sat down, “see this.” He drew a large R on a page that was already cluttered with writing. “Grantaire has been signing his notes in such a manner for the past week and I swear I have spent nearly as long trying to figure out why. It just struck me today, see if you can’t get it, it’s a wonderful trick–”

“I’m sorry, who are we talking about?” Enjolras asked, feeling rather lost as he looked between Joly to the letter on the otherwise blank page.

“…Grantaire?” Joly repeated. He reached over and shook the curly-haired man’s shoulder. “This Grantaire?”

“I see,” said Enjolras coldly. “We hadn’t been properly introduced.”

The man’s face was turning red again, and he grabbed the pen back from Joly’s hand. Instead of answer Enjolras, he bent over another piece of paper in front of him and began writing fiercely. Blatantly ignored for the second time in as many conversations, Enjolras turned to Joly with a thunderous expression, hoping for sympathy. Instead Joly was giving him a rather pained look and was likewise holding his tongue.

Was there some new social convention that was encouraging people to cut him from discussion?

Suddenly a sheet of paper was pressed into his hands.

 _I am not actually an idiot,_ read the paper in angry, smudged letters. _Merely dumb, ha ha. I can hear you perfectly fine, so if you wish to continue speculating about my questionable intellect you may want to do it in a more modulated tone._

_As it is though, I hardly think it is my intellect that should be called into question, seeing how I at least realize that the prospect of successfully directing Parisians towards anything unknown is about as likely as being able to successfully herd cats, never mind hoping that the direction you send them in might lead to Meaningful Change. At least a cat may be encouraged with adequate motivation: fresh fish, for example, or the promise of shedding on a fellow’s new coat; whereas Parisians are attracted by little except spectacle and an easy sous. An early grave offers little of either. I would go so far as to say that if you possibly expect something as fanciful as a Revolution to be carried out you would have better luck making sure you and your men are dressed in your best suits in the interest of attracting an army of felines feeling oppressed by the monarchy. It would be more fruitful than hoping the same would come from « The People _», as you call them_._

_– R_

Enjolras was aware that his mouth had fallen open, not only because he was suddenly being forced to grasp that the silent man was apparently very well-worded when given the appropriate medium, but also because every single word he had written was so wrong that Enjolras didn’t even know where to begin. Just as he had finished reading the page though it was suddenly torn from his hands and the man was writing again. Before the ink was dry, it was again shoved towards him.

_And I hardly had a pen the night you spoke to me, did I? Unless you had hoped I would take a Romantic approach and write my name in blood or some such thing I didn’t exactly have many outlets. Regardless, I didn’t fail to introduce myself,_ _ you _ _simply failed to adequately listen. For what it’s worth though, my name is Grantaire.  
– R_

“See?” said Joly lightly, as if he was ignorant to the hostile exchange, though the barely suppressed grin on his face informed Enjolras that he was anything but. “It’s a  _grand R_. Grantaire. Get it?”

Enjolras did, in fact, get it.

-

That day acted like a small pebble triggering an avalanche, because after that point Grantaire refused to shut up. One might think it hard for a mute man to be loud but Grantaire had, somehow, mastered it. He would tut his tongue loudly when he disagreed with something that Enjolras was saying (which was often), or snap his fingers to draw attention and then either hold up pages of cramped writing that Enjolras would have to squint at to read, or else he’d have bullied the person next to him into reading his words out loud (different people approached this job with varying of enthusiasm – Feuilly had seemed very reluctant to read out the dissenting argument to something he strongly believed in, whereas when Bahorel got that chance he seemed to relish it). 

On one memorable occasion, after Enjolras had refused to acknowledge his loud snapping, Grantaire had folded his page of writing into a paper glider of sorts and lobbed it at Enjolras’ head. If nothing else Grantaire had spectacular aim; the page had flown straight into Enjolras temple, point first, and proceeded to get tangled in his hair. That and the actual content on the page would have been enough to irritate Enjolras on its own, but Bossuet and Bahorel seemed to take keen interest in the paper projectile and Grantaire was soon showing them the method of folding them rather than paying attention to the meeting. When even Feuilly and Combeferre had been distracted (the former showing deftness with paper folding that came of long hours of fan-making, and latter suggesting potential alterations to the shape to increase the aerodynamics of glider) Enjolras had reluctantly accepted defeat for the evening and let his lieutenants stage an air-borne war instead.

(“Wouldn’t it be just the thing if we could attack from the air?” Courfeyrac commented. “Imagine, flying through the sky and simply dropping canon balls from above! The National Guard would never see it coming.”

“Well,” said Combeferre, “there are hot air balloons, of course, but while they might work sufficiently to lift a man I can only imagine the size that it would have to be to hope to lift armament. Not to mention how slow and cumbersome they are. You would be shot down before you had time to appreciate your cleverness. It’s probably for the best though, imagine how terrifying it would be to see some sort of battleship zipping at you from above!”)

Grantaire also had the loudest eye-roll of anyone else known to this earth. Enjolras could be facing the other direction and he swore he could hear when the man set to doing it. He also had a funny, huffing laugh that consisted of air being suddenly exhaled and inhaled from his nose. This only came when he thought Enjolras was saying something particularly ridiculous, and it was a several weeks before Enjolras heard his true laugh, a sound which consisted of sudden, low, wheezing breathes that had startled both Enjolras and Feuilly badly the first time they heard it after Bossuet had made a truly awful pun. At first Enjolras had been afraid that Grantaire was having some sort of fit and had rushed to his side, pressing a hand to his hunched over back in concern, only to realize belated that he had his huge, face-splitting smile on. Other times his laughter was silent, and merely consisted of a mute, thrown back head, which was a rather surreal thing to witness. It reminded Enjolras of once seeing Jehan playing his flute without the reed – “So I might practise without having my landlady brought down on me” – it had been a bizarre thing to see the poet’s fingers dancing over the holes of his instrument and his cheeks puffing but to not hear a note emitted.

-

By the time winter rolled around Enjolras was surprised by just how much he had come to enjoy the company of Grantaire, for all his vices and skepticism and distractions. The realization came when he had called for his lieutenants alone to stay after a meeting so that they could go over some sensitive matters, only to find that Grantaire wasn’t among them.

“He said he was going to the Corinthe,” Jehan said when Enjolras asked. “I was going to meet him there after we were finished here.”

“But I asked you all to stay! What sort of nerve does he have to have to think he can cut out and go drinking when there’s work to be done! He couldn’t have been responsible for another fifteen minutes before going to over-indulge?”

“I… don’t think he knew he was suppose to stay…?”

Enjolras couldn’t do anything but stare at Jehan. Because of course Grantaire was suppose to stay. Of course he was a lieutenant. How could he not be at this point? How could this be doubted? It was a thought that distracted him all through the twenty minutes he kept his lieutenant and which ultimately saw him marching in the direction of the Corinthe rather than his rooms once the meeting was concluded.

Grantaire wasn’t hard to spot. It seemed unbelievable that there was ever a time Enjolras had been able to ignore him because, for all he never spoke a word, Grantaire had a way of demanding attention. It was in the way he drank and winked at women that caught his eye, the way he lounged at his table like he owned it for the evening and the way his papers would spread out around him, waiting to be filled with his unspoken voice. Enjolras made a beeline towards where he sat now, drinking from a glass of wine and sketching lazily on a piece of paper in front of him.

“Grantaire,” he called, and the man’s head snapped up immediately. The expression was confused but pleased, brows lowered but cheeks reddening with pleasure (or perhaps drink, it could be hard to tell sometimes). In any case, he gave a jaunty wave.

“You left,” said Enjolras, accusingly.

Grantaire raised a single eyebrow.  _What of it?_  it seemed to ask.

Enjolras scowled. “I told you plainly to stay.”

Both eyebrows rose and his nostrils flared; he looked affronted, a look he got whenever he thought Enjolras couldn’t be more wrong.

“I did. I called for my lieutenants to stay, don’t act like that gives you an excuse to sneak out with the crowd.”

Grantaire’s expression fell, it looked much smaller, more vulnerable. Confused and uncertain and perhaps a little hopeful. One hand fluttered towards his pen and ink pot, but it hovered there, as if Grantaire knew he had something to say but didn’t know how to conceptualize it.

“Don’t,” Enjolras warned. “If you think for a moment you can pretend that you are not included among our ranks… Courfeyrac alone would have my neck if it were suggested, never mind Joly or Bossuet or Bahorel. No one would hear it suggested that you don’t belong with us, even if you insist on setting yourself apart with your frankly ridiculous beliefs. As Combeferre said, we cannot dictate the thoughts shared within our group or we are no better than those we oppose.”

Grantaire’s face was very red now and Enjolras was positive now that it was from some strong emotion. This time his hand snatched up his pen and he bent over his page, writing fretfully, crossing out continuously and rewriting. After over a minute of this passed, Grantaire looked up and gestured for Enjolras to be patient.

“Of course,” said Enjolras, rather cross that Grantaire thought that he wouldn’t give him the necessary time to write out his words.

As he waited he saw the bar maid casting them strange looks. Perhaps they did look odd, it must have appeared like a very one-sided conversation, but that was only because she wasn’t accustom to how verbal Grantaire could be with eyebrows alone. He levelled a glare at her until she stopped staring and went back to her work.

There was an angry clatter as Grantaire flung his pen to the table and crumpled up the page entirely, tossing it into the fire.

“Take your time.”

 _Stop being so damn reasonable,_  Grantaire scrawled irritably.

He deliberated for a few more seconds over his word before sighing silently and writing,  _I won’t make the mistake of leaving before my time again._

After a moment he added:  _Thank you._  

And, after another pause, Grantaire underlined that.  _Thank you._

Enjolras nodded. “I’m glad to hear it. I’ll see you on Thursday.”

-

Enjolras startled out of his thoughts suddenly when Grantaire held a sheet of paper up over his face. It consisted of a crudely drawn figure with wild eyes, curly hair and a tongue sticking out. It looked like a gamin had attempted to draw an unflattering caricature of Grantaire; Enjolras couldn’t help but laugh out loud, for all it made Combeferre give him a confused look, since Grantaire sat behind him and he couldn’t see the picture

 _I thought that if you were going to keep staring at my face I might give you a reason for it,_  wrote Grantaire.

Courfeyrac, who had seen the drawing and the following message, chuckled. “As if he needs that for an excuse, you face is plenty interesting. The fair Mlle Boissy certainly thought so yesterday.” Grantaire gave Courfeyrac such a lofty look that Enjolras found himself laughing again.  _If I had only chosen,_  he wrote with such an exaggerated flourish that the mock indignation was unmistakable.  _But I have more worthwhile demands on my time than the tasteless._

Enjolras sat back, the amusement suddenly dead in him. Before Grantaire had caught him staring he had been thinking longingly of what it would be like to hear Grantaire if his voice, his reed, hadn’t been cruelly plucked from him before Enjolras had met him. A sensation of guilt was following on the tails of that wish though. Grantaire didn’t need a voice to have… well, a voice. He had a more expressive face than any Enjolras had ever seen and was so apt at choosing appropriate words that his intentions were never lost. To suggest otherwise – and that’s what such a wish was, surely – was doing Grantaire a serious disservice.

_Uh oh, he’s staring again. Do I have some cynicism stuck to my face or something?_

-

“No.”

…

“No, I don’t care.”

…

“It doesn’t make any difference, we’re not dressing Jehan up as a monarch to have some sort of public mock trial.”

…

“I don’t care if he agreed to it!”

…

“Because there are infinitely more subtle and tasteful ways of conveying the exact same message without dolling Prouvaire up in a paper crown!”

Louison hesitated outside the door the backroom. She could have sworn the last of the Amis boys had left for the evening, though it didn’t surprise her that their leader had lingered. It wasn’t unusual for him to burn their candles down to stubs. Truth be told several of them lingering until the small hours was relatively common and she had gotten quite apt at tactfully extracting them so that they could close up the shop. The thing was though that no one else had spoken in the past half an hour and that didn’t seem to dissuade M. Enjolras in the slightest.

“I honestly couldn’t care less about how flattering the tights you found may or may not be on his calves. I said no.”

Louison decided that she wouldn’t disturb him just yet.

-

The soft scratching of pen on paper was a soothing balm after a day of high emotions. They had been giving a demonstration out in the streets and, with voices raised from every corner of the street, by the end they had largely been shouting to be heard over the ruckus. The demonstration had ended in pandemonium when the gendarmes had come to break up the congregation and people had stampeded in all directions to escape a bludgeoning at best or arrest at worse. After the chaos and success of the afternoon, most of the other members of the ABC Society had chosen to take the night off, heading off to see a play that Courfeyrac had been raving about; Enjolras had chosen to stay in the Musain’s backroom and work on follow-up pamphlets to illustrate some of the points that had been obscured in the confusion.

Grantaire had also chosen to stay.  _Too tired to write,_  he had told them when he was invited.  _No point going if I’m not going to be able to talk._ Enjolras had assumed that meant that Grantaire would go home, but instead he had taken a seat across from Enjolras with a bottle of wine in one hand at a volume of something that appeared to be written in Greek in the other. Between sips and page flips, he sketched idly on a piece of paper before him, the figure of a human dressed in a Grecian style tunic slowly taking shape.

Enjolras had learnt that Grantaire was a student by technicality if not by practice. ( _My parents had no interest in burdening themselves with a son who was crippled of the mind,_  Grantaire had written one evening, his lettering so warped by drink that they had been barely legible.  _When I expressed interest in seeing Paris they were only too happy to pay for my accommodations and schooling. Schooling only because even if I was too dull to be permitted in classes they could at least claim their son was not a complete oaf and idler. Joke’s on them._ )

It infuriated Enjolras at moments like this because Grantaire was  _smart_. Skeptical to a fault and prone to distraction, but the Classical references that dotted his speech, the languages he was able to read and write in, his ability to so effectively refute Enjolras’ points – these left no doubt that it was nothing but prejudice that kept Grantaire from being able to properly attend classes. ( _It doesn’t matter, as long as they let me into their libraries I don’t give a toss over whether or not some glorified, nattering skeleton kicks me out of class for not being able to answer to roll call._ ) Enjolras knew it mattered to him though, because Grantaire spoke with his face as much as he did his pen, and his mouth had curled into something sour and bitter.

( _People assume you’re simple if you can’t speak. Believe me, no one has ever had any qualms about saying so around me; most of the time they think that just because I can’t speak I can’t hear or comprehend either. Perhaps they’re right though, I’m hardly an academic, am I? Academia is surprisingly lacking of degenerate artists that waste their time playing with paints or learning the vulgar art of pugilism. I dabble, I waste my time, but I’m no intellectual. I can thank whatever luck I have to have avoided that soulless fate at least._ )

Sometimes Enjolras thought he understood where the cynicism came from. He didn’t agree with it, but its roots enraged him. After first hearing this story Enjolras had taken Combeferre up in such an aggressively enthusiastic conversation about universal education that even Combeferre, a vehement supporter of it, had been taken aback.

“When you get too tired to write,” Enjolras said, breaking the silence suddenly, “how do you communicate with people? Are you forced to stay silent until you feel better? What happens on evenings like when we met for the first time, when you don’t have pen or paper? …You don’t have to answer, I realize it’s counter-intuitive to you leaving our friends to avoid needing to tal– write.”

Grantaire looked up from his book and gave Enjolras a long, considering look. Slowly he unearthed a sheet of paper that he hadn’t yet drawn on and wrote out,  _When I want to talk, and don’t or can’t write, I go talk to other people._

Enjolras’ brow knit. “Who would you go to talk to if you can’t speak or write?”

_People who don’t need a voice or pen to speak._

“I wasn’t looking for a riddle,” said Enjolras.

Grantaire snuffed through his nose, a sigh. He looked tired.  _You’ll probably think it sounds ridiculous._

“Then I’ll be returning the favour, since you seem to find most of what we talk about ridiculous and sit through it anyway.”

After another long, deliberating moment, Grantaire pushed back his chair and–

And Enjolras wasn’t entirely sure what he was watching. Grantaire flapped his hands around. Though in a manner that struck Enjolras as very deliberate.

 _We speak with our bodies. Our hands and faces,_  he wrote after the display.

Enjolras had to read the sentence a couple times over to make sure he understood it properly. 

“That’s amazing!”

Grantaire looked taken aback.

“Is it… is it really an entire language? Or can you only say certain things? Can you have an entire conversation in it? Would they have to be simple conversations or could you, say, hold an entire meeting in it if you wanted to?”

If anything, Grantaire only seemed to become more surprised as Enjolras continued.  _It’s as much a language as French. Possibly more of a language than English._  Enjolras chuckled.  _You could, theoretically, say anything that you do in French in sign language (that’s what we call it, since we’re speaking with physicals signs rather than spoken words, see?) so long as you know the vocabulary for it, but that’s no different than needing a sufficient vocabulary to speak in French._

“So then that gesture you made when I first tried to speak with you–?”

Grantaire was grinning now.  _My name, yes. Well, in a sense. Sign language has unique words that are entirely encapsulated in specific gestures, but it also has an alphabet, for spelling words or names in. My full name would be:_  and here he broke off to gesture what Enjolras could only assume were individual letters. Pointer finger raised into the air, pointer and middle finger crossed, a fist, pointer and middle fingers raised and pointed to the side – and so it continued, nine separate gestures in total.

“A little cumbersome,” Enjolras said and Grantaire nodded in fervent agreement.

 _That’s why we tend to give each other name-signs instead. This is mine:_  Again he crossed his middle and pointer fingers and held them against his cheek.

“This–” Enjolras crossed his middle and pointer finger in demonstration, slowly connecting the gesture to where he had seen it placed among the others that formed Grantaire’s name and to what he knew of Grantaire’s character. “Is an R then, isn’t it?”

Grantaire grinned in affirmative. 

“Why held against your cheek? Is there significance? Or what if other people have a name that starts with R… or doesn’t start with R at all, in your case… wouldn’t it be confusing?”

_There’s different ways of making name-signs. They can mimic aspects of a person or may just be the first letter of their name held in an arbitrary position that doesn’t conflict with an actual sign or anyone else’s name sign. It’s a pretty small community that speaks sign language here in Paris, and we haven’t come across any significant problems with naming. Normally my name-sign would use a G because, you know, “Grantaire”, but I kept signing everything I wrote before I fully knew the language with my rebus. Most of them don’t really get the joke but it’s stuck and I’m now R._

“Why wouldn’t they get it?” Surely it wasn’t that obscure.

Grantaire rolled his eyes.  _Most are deaf and my pun is a homonym. As a rule, this is the language of the deaf – I found a member of the community during my wanderings around the city years back and he agreed to teach me when I expressed interest in his ability to speak with a companion without needing to vocalize words. Many of them studied at l’Institution Nationale des Sourds-Muets, and have known each other for a long time; they’re a lovely group, though they’ve shown me some of the sign language they tried to teach at the Institution and it’s hilariously awful. They’ve butchered what they’d been taught entirely and in the process made it palatable to a real human being that wishes to speak. You should like that, the People Taking What Is Theirs From The Mighty Institutions._

“Can anyone learn it? Would I be able to meet any of them?”

Grantaire stared at Enjolras in surprise and genuinely thought about his answer.  _I suppose so, but it’s hard to say how welcome you would be. They’re individual people, not a single body, and approach matters from all different sides. There were some who ~~weren't~~  aren’t very pleased about my presence among them, since they feel I don’t share their experiences and hardships. And they’re right, of course: I can hear, I can understand French easily and fluently, and so long as I have paper and pen I can speak easily enough back. Many of them have been seriously abused by hearing people who had no tolerance for their difficulties. Many othersthough are incredibly friendly and love to share a language they wish more people knew. I could seek out some of my friends, if you’re truly interested, but don’t feel like you’re under some sort of obligation…_

“I would love to meet them,” said Enjolras emphatically.

-

They ended up meeting on a Sunday afternoon after Mass had let out, as it was one of the few days that Enjolras didn’t have school or ABC obligations. Enjolras hadn’t attended Church in years, and Grantaire left no illusions about his feelings on religion, but the man that was sitting in the café next to Grantaire when Enjolras arrived had a small cross on his watch-chain and, judging by his clothes, had probably come straight from a church. Enjolras wondered what a person who couldn’t hear did in a sermon, though decided quickly that this wasn’t something to be brought up casually; he didn’t want to risk offending Grantaire’s friend so early on.

Enjolras hesitated for a couple moments in the crowd of the café before going to make himself known, simply because he was amazed by what he saw. The man and Grantaire sat across from each other and their hands moved with wild elegance. Their faces danced and hands darted about but it was so organized that it was clear that serious discussion was happening, even if it was as foreign and meaningless to him as German or Russian might be.

Grantaire noticed him though, and waved him over.

“Hello…” Enjolras said, though immediately realized that while Grantaire nodded back in greeting his companion wouldn’t be able to understand him. Enjolras had never been faced by a situation where he couldn’t speak to communicate and he found himself more wrong footed than he had expected.

 _This is Bertrand,_  Grantaire wrote.  _Bertrand, this is Enjolras._

Enjolras watched Bertrand turn to Grantaire with a frankly devilish grin and make a series of quick gesture, though the one that stood out most notably to Enjolras was one that involved him twisting his thumbs together and fanning out the remaining fingers, fluttering them like butterfly wings. He did all of this with his eyebrows knit, which made Enjolras wonder if the expression too was somehow part of the language or if he had already managed to offend Grantaire’s friend.

While this exchange was meaningless to Enjolras it clearly wasn’t to Grantaire who went bright red and responded with sharp gesture. They offered no explanation to their exchange; Grantaire was quick to order a bottle of wine and Bertrand took up a pen out of his coat pocket and dipped it into the ink pot on the table, one that Enjolras recognized by now as Grantaire’s.

_It is a pleasure to meet you; I have heard a lot about you._

Enjolras was about to respond when he realized he couldn’t, not simply by speaking, not like he could with Grantaire, and he hadn’t thought to bring anything with which to write. A pen was suddenly lifted in front of his vision, held by Grantaire who was giving him a rather smug look. Enjolras scowled back, but perhaps Grantaire was appreciating this turn of fortune – no longer was he the minority, Enjolras was now the one that couldn’t speak the dominant language at this table and must be accommodated.

_Likewise, although I’m afraid I have heard less about you. I hope you haven’t taken anything R’s said too much to heart, or I fear you will have a very negative opinion of me indeed._

Bertrand laughed noiselessly.

 _« Negative _»__ was all he wrote in response, intensely amused, shooting Grantaire very significant looks. Grantaire reached out to wrestle the pen away from Bertrand, but the latter simply shifted seats so he was sat closer to Enjolras than Grantaire, who was now signing threateningly at him.

 _Negative is not the word I would have used,_  Bertrand wrote in explanation to Enjolras baffled expression.  _But as you like it._

It was a very agreeable lunch in the end. Bertrand seemed to like him well enough, and he was a bright, amiable person. He had a great appreciation for literature – ( _Before I learnt of sign language, letters were all I had; you do grow rather fond of the window that let you glimpse the rest of the world_ ) – and the three of them sank into a very involved discussion on the subject as they ate. Every so often Bertrand would break off to sign to Grantaire, either to share some private thought, or occasionally to ask for an expression that he was unsure about in colloquial French – you could definitely tell that he had been taught language from novels rather than casual speech, but for the most part both he and Grantaire were happy enough to stick to writing so that Enjolras wouldn’t be left out. Papers and pens and ink pots were passed all around the table, making cups of wine and coffee tip threateningly and pages flutter across plates. At the end, Bertrand had agreed to let Enjolras purchase lessons on signing from him, so long as he was interested in meeting routinely to practice.

 _It would be better if you learnt from someone who speaks it better than me,_  Grantaire explained.  _I haven’t been speaking it all that long and my grammar’s still pretty abominable. Bertrand’s been speaking it since he was, what, ten?_

 _I was sent to INSM when I was ten, but it took some time since then to really pick it up. And even after that, it took us all some time to filter out the nonsense and actually make it a speakable language. It was a blessing and curse,_  Bertrand wrote back.

After pens and ink pots had been stored back into coat pockets and used papers had been disposed of in the fire they bid each other farewell and all went their separate ways. Before leaving though, Grantaire shoved a scrap of paper into Enjolras’ hand and then turned and marched firmly away.

_If you feel like you’re required to learn a language for me, you are not. Don’t go out of your way, I am not your cause, I am not a mission or something to be saved. – R_

Enjolras crumpled up the page and tossed it away. If Grantaire thought Enjolras wished this because he saw him as a “cause” rather than a friend there was a serious discussion that they would need to have in the near future.

-

Progress was slow. Enjolras had never been interested in learning a second language before, feeling wholly devoted to his mother tongue, and it became increasingly clear that sign language was very much that: a second language. Some part of him had assumed it was simply French, but with gestures substituting words. One lesson with Bertrand was enough to prove him very wrong on that point. Besides for unique words, its grammar, sentence structure, nuances – nearly every aspect of it was worlds different and it was no easy task to try to learn, especially when he found out it wasn’t simply a matter of making the right hand shape, but having your eyebrows, your mouth, your head, and more all in the right position as well. The fact that school and meetings left him little time didn’t help matters, but he fought to ensure he met and spoke with Bertrand at least once a week.

Bertrand, let it be said, had the patience of a saint.

 _At least you are more agreeable to teach than Grantaire,_  he wrote out after Enjolras had apologized after a particularly disastrous lesson.  _I swear the first thing he learnt was how to cuss me out. If it was not so clear that he loved it as much as he did I probably would have sent him on his way._ He was grinning fondly as he wrote though, and it was clear that he would have done no such thing. Grantaire did have a strange way of endearing himself to you, all while making you contemplate the repercussions of strangling him.

One thing, Enjolras decided when Bertrand was again scolding him on how he didn’t move his face near enough while speaking, was that it was much easier to understand another person speaking than to try to speak himself. So it was fortunate that he was more interested in being able to understand Grantaire than to speak in sign himself. Grantaire wasn’t deaf after all, he could hear and understand Enjolras’ voice just fine, but if Grantaire could be allowed to speak like this at meetings, fast-paced and not reliant on pen and paper, how different might their discussions be…

-

Nothing changed drastically, even as Enjolras got better. 

The first time Enjolras was able to sign to Grantaire – because, though Grantaire was aware of the lessons, Enjolras hadn’t wanted to attempt to speak it before he felt he had at least some meagre degree of competency – it made all the effort worth it.

The room had been uncommonly full, with lots of voices competing for space, and Enjolras and Grantaire had been at one table debating (bickering like old maids, as Combeferre had put it before leaving) the merits of trying to concoct their own gun powder, Grantaire had finally thrown his hands in the air out of frustration and wrote, _I can’t hear a damn word your saying._

 _Is this better?_   Enjolras had signed back.

The smile that spread across Grantaire’s face had been deafening. The following conversation had been awkward and stilted – surprisingly enough Bertrand hadn’t taught Enjolras words like “revolt” or “insurgence” or “illegal, home-brewed gunpowder” – and soon they both simply switched to writing, but the ripples of the smile remained and they continued to do funny things inside Enjolras chest.

-

Over time Grantaire no longer had to resort to lobbing balls of paper at Enjolras or convincing his friends to read his painstakingly transcribed opinions aloud for him, instead he would simply demand Enjolras attention and sign what he meant to say and Enjolras would be able to respond quickly and easily.

-

It was late, the candle was flickering in a growing puddle of wax, and even outside the Parisian street noises were calming down for the evening. It could make a lone man feel like his room was truly all that existed in the universe. Of course, Enjolras wasn’t alone, but the sentiment was the same. There was a certain pleasure in the feeling of being left adrift in a raft for two.

Enjolras sat at one end of his couch and was reading out loud to Grantaire, who had been helping him construct an essay for the past couple hours (by which he naturally meant: had been mercilessly poking holes into it and watching Enjolras scramble to fortify his argument).

 _I love your voice,_  Grantaire signed suddenly, his hands casting dramatic shadows on the wall. _You could lead an army with your voice and your words alone._

“I thought you didn’t believe in our ability to amass an army?” said Enjolras, trying to hide the pleasure in his voice.

 _I don’t,_  said Grantaire. And after a moment,  _But I do believe in you._

Enjolras swallowed, coughed, and then said, “Tell me what you think of this now,” and read an amended paragraph.

Grantaire told him exactly what he thought, with very exaggerated, pointed signs. Enjolras might have been more annoyed by the complete deconstruction of his argument yet again if it weren’t for the fact that he found himself getting more and more distracted lately by Grantaire’s words, by his calligraphy and his signs and the thoughts he expressed so well even though he was forced to different mediums than most people.

“I love your voice too,” he said, cutting off Grantaire’s tirade and effectively stopping him dead. Grantaire’s face went red.

He wasn’t sure what possessed him, only knew that it had been long in coming, but when Enjolras felt his heart clench at the bright, expressive blush he moved across the couch so that his leg and Grantaire’s were nearly touching and pressed his hand into Grantaire’s. Middle and ring fingers curled into his palm, pinky and pointer extended, along with his thumb which he used to stroke Grantaire’s wrist ever so gently.

Grantaire stared from Enjolras face, down to the hand and the sign it formed in his own, and back up, as if fearing to decipher their meaning, as if they somehow weren’t explicit enough. Enjolras shifted closer yet, took Grantaire’s face with his free hand, and pressed his lips to Grantaire’s. For a moment he feared rejection, that he had misread the situation or allowed his own desires to cloud his judgement, but this language, at least, appeared to be universal because soon Grantaire’s hands were knit in his hair and he was being pulled right onto the other man’s lap.

The essay was left for the night.

-

They learnt a new language to speak around each other. One spoken with hands over skin and in hair. One that flowed with Enjolras’ voice and Grantaire’s clever fingers and notes left scattered around various rooms, reminders and reprimands and promises and tenderness. One made for calming petty arguments and reaching understandings where before they may have contented themselves with butting heads. One for navigating shared rooms and shared meals and increasingly shared lives. One that, sadly, propriety demanded stay behind closed doors and protective walls. But a beautiful language all the same.

The arguments and debates never stopped but neither of them would ever want them to.

-

Grantaire had been trying to catch Enjolras’ eye for the past ten minutes before Enjolras finally gave in and glanced away from the conversation he was having with Courfeyrac.  _Will you be home tonight?_  Grantaire signed lazily from where he sat with Joly and Bossuet.

 _I’ll probably stay here late with Feuilly; he has a day off tomorrow and wants to take advantage of a free evening,_  Enjolras signed back, sending an apologetic look when Courfeyrac cut himself off mid-sentence to make dramatic noises in the back of his throat. Usually in such circumstances Enjolras chose to speak aloud, since it seemed unjust to carry an entirely private conversation out among friends, but the extent to which he and Grantaire spent time together was still very much a secretive topic. Enjolras swore Grantaire had an exhibitionist streak somewhere deep in his soul though, because he seemed to relish this manner of public yet private discussion.

 _Mmm, I could wait up for you,_  signed Grantaire.

_No reason to, I’ll likely take dinner here, so if you want to eat you needn’t wait for me._

_I wasn’t talking about waiting up for dinner._

“I’m sorry, am I interrupting something?” Courfeyrac asked wryly. “I swear, the two of you learning a secret language was one of the worst things that has ever happened. When you two aren’t screaming – well, you know – at each other you look like you’re trying to jinx each other with your fingers. What are you talking about?”

“Sorry, Courfeyrac. Grantaire is being his usual, disruptive self. Please continue,” Enjolras said hurriedly, turning his full attention back to Courfeyrac. He couldn’t ignore the signs Grantaire was still making at him though.

_You could come back to my rooms. I’ll even tidy up. Clear off the bed, plenty of room for two on it once the books have been deprived of their spot, as you well know…_

Enjolras willed his expression to stay neutral, refused to think about what Grantaire was referencing, and absolutely refused to give the grin currently plastering Grantaire’s face the satisfaction of a response. He forced himself to nod at Courfeyrac and make some comment that he forgot the moment it left his mouth. It spurred Courfeyrac on and kept him from noticing that a conversation was still happening behind his back so that, at least, was a blessing.

_In any case, my land lady has left for Normandy to visit her ailing father. Of course, her presence has never bothered me but we both know how… loud… you can get in the night. Voice raised in discussion I mean, naturally. How nice it would be to have a proper, loud _«_ debate  _»_ without fear of her overhearing, right, Enjolras?_

In his head Enjolras promised Grantaire a horrible, painful death.

_You could come back from a long evening of riled passions, getting all heated from political debate, tired from a late night and the walk back to my rooms, and I could take you to bed, remove those pesky, distracting clothes, give you a nice, long massage…_

Enjolras took a long, slow breath. “My apologies, one moment more, Courfeyrac,” he said, cutting his friend off. He turned fully in his seat. “Grantaire. Shut up.”  _And fine, I’ll see you in your rooms later tonight. If I hear one more word from you before then though you’ll regret ever lifting your fingers from that table._

Grantaire gave him a jaunty salute and turned back to Joly and Bossuet who had been watching the exchange with confused humour, playfully brushing them off when they questioned what he had been saying.

(Across the room Combeferre, red face buried behind a medical text book, hastily shoved the sheets of meticulously taken notes describing hand positions and their corresponding meanings under a stack of more innocuous anatomy notes. Perhaps now wasn’t the best time to mention that he had taken to spending time around l’Institution Nationale des Sourds-Muets à Paris in the hopes of likewise picking up the language so that Enjolras wouldn’t be the only one at meetings who could understand Grantaire’s signing. No, he decided, for the time being he himself was going to do his damnedest to forget that he had a basic understanding, along with absolutely everything that he may or may not have just accidentally learnt because of it. Some things were much, much better left unspoken and he tactfully decided that this was absolutely one of them.)

 

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, disclaimer time for anyone interested in getting some background information:
> 
> First and foremost: I am not mute, nor d/Deaf, nor do I know any sign language, never mind sign language from France in the 1800s. So. If I’ve majorly messed up anywhere I am really sorry and by all means, let me know, I really don’t want to offend anyone (shout out to the anon on the meme who gave me some advice). I am aware that there’s some pretty shitty mentality towards mutism and deafness and shit in here and I promise that I by no means share that opinion (and I hope that came across well) but the 19th century isn’t known for it’s super inclusive, healthy views on that sort of thing. This is also why I didn’t capitalize “deaf” anywhere in the story, because I doubted there would have been much recognition of being culturally Deaf.
> 
> The signs mentioned I didn’t translate in the work because it’s in Enjolras’ POV and he doesn’t understand them which means the readers don’t get to either. I did my best to look up LSF signs, though they’re all modern ones and, let’s be honest, probably used incorrectly:  
> \- As Grantaire said, the sign he uses for his name is an R (pointer and middle finger twisted together) held next to his cheek (an arbitrary name-sign because descriptive ones confuse me and I would be in an even bigger risk at messing that up). For anyone that cares though, I like to think that Grantaire would have used a descriptive sign for Enjolras when he was talking about him to Deaf friends, probably something related to his hair because, come on, we all know that Enjolras’ hair is on point.  
> \- The specifically described sign Bertrand makes at Grantaire, with the thumbs linked, is the sign for “angel”. Knitted eyebrows is used to indicate a closed (yes or no) question. Basically, he’s heard stories about Enjolras and is teasing Grantaire like “yo that the ~angel~ you’ve been telling us about bro?”  
> \- The sign Enjolras makes at the end, raised thumb, pointer, and pinky finger, is the classic “I love you” sign which is apparently the same in LSF so yay!
> 
> And now history time for anyone that’s still interested:  
> Around half way through the 18th century an abbé, Charles-Michel de l’Épée, came across two Deaf sister who spoke to each other in what is now referred to as la vieille langue des signes française (Old French Sign Language) and fell in love with the beauty of it, and from there learnt of a Parisian community estimated at around 200 that spoke in VLSF. He started to develop a new version of it, becoming one of the first mainstream acknowledgements that you didn’t need oral language to be intelligent. Of course it should be strongly noted that he was also a complete asshat, and considered VLSF “primitive” and instead of documenting it or letting himself be taught by the community he set about creating an entirely new version that was pretty much unusable in a real life context because he made these ridiculously complex signs. However the major good he did do was in creating a free deaf school: Institution Nationale des Sourds-Muets à Paris. And while the language he created (and really that was the problem – artificial languages never work well) was kind of rubbish, it did mean that there was suddenly a large congregation of d/Deaf people under one roof able to interact with each other. French sign language then flourished until the late 19th century when oralism (forcing Deaf people to learn to speak orally instead of with sign language) became predominant and basically attempted to eradicate manualist education entirely. So, living in the early 19th century in Paris would mean that Grantaire would have been in a hot spot for finding Deaf culture and people that might be interested in teaching him sign language. Basically this is a long convoluted way of me saying that even though Grantaire isn’t d/Deaf in this fic I am absolutely convinced that, given his knowledge of Paris and “the best places for everything”, he would have discovered and enthusiastically embraced sign language as a much preferred mode of speech.


End file.
